Yantrixa 10:To Nazia, My Love...

I love all things Goan - can't get enough of Goa. I think Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa is my favourite movie.

I dragged my brother to Goa Portuguesa last night and lo and behold - we ran into Anjane. My brother nearly shit himself - I admit I was happy too. Anjane was my brother's classmate in Kirti. They met for the first time in Biology class and soon became very close friends. Anjane was from Khandesh, and spoke Ahirani, a language my parents grew up listening to. That made him a hit on Ganesh Chaturthi.

Back in his college days Anjane had a hostel room, and I had job that allowed easy access to alcohol and money - it was a match made in heaven. We became regulars at a dance bar called the Commander in Chembur. Anjane had never been in the big city before, we partied through the night.

The parties continued even after my brother and Anjane graduated. I was in Italy at the time and I missed the transition. The night I returned from Milan, I got a call from Anjane to come party with him again. I had picked up a few bottles of wine and I was in a mood to share, so I agreed. I figured we'd meet up at the Commander and take it from there. I was wrong.

My brother and I rode out to meet Anjane somewhere in Ballard Pier on a motorbike. I had no idea what we were doing in Ballard Pier, but I wasn't really bothered, I loved to travel the city at night. We passed yet another row of grain godowns and spotted something up ahead. We slowed down when we realised that those were the flashing lights of a Qualis and that a bus was parked half the way across the road. We came to a halt near the bus and then we saw the now very very late Irfan mian. Next to him, bleeding away into the next world was mian's sidekick Aslam (nee' Gururaj). A plainclothesman was wiping a Smith Wesson and placing it in Irfan mian's hand and an AK variant was already in Gururaj's hand. The blood from the bodies was still draining away in a pool that was growing and a strong smell of urine and shit filled the air. Some distance away, a plainclothesman was vomitting his guts out.

As we approached the Qualis, I saw Anjane standing next to Shirsat. Shirsat's face was often on the cover of the tabloids. Shirsat had his foot on the bumper of the Qualis and was in a quiet conversation with Anjane who was standing very rigidly. Shirsat had a standard issue Glock in an evidence bag and though I could barely hear what Shirsat was saying, Anjane was saying "Yes Sir..." to everything. I had no idea Anjane worked for Shirsat - I simply assumed he had gone home to Khandesh after graduating. My mind is blank as to how we ended up riding in the back of the Qualis after that and all I seem to recall is passing around the bottle of Pinnochio to everyone in the back of the car - including the constable, Phane - who just recently had been puking his guts out.

It was a night to remember after that. I had no idea that a Qualis could go that fast when the driver was blind drunk. Anjane took to the Pinnochio quite well, but felt the Barolo was too complex - it made sense it is actually meant to be had with a good piece of meat. At the party afterwards Anjane told us how they had hunted Irfan and Aslam for two weeks now. Apparently they had taken things too far recently and raped a schoolgirl from Mulund. The girl was related to a politician and that is when the shit hit the fan. That is why their names were on a black list. I was stoned out of my mind and I called Anjane, Shikari Shambu and my brother laughed so hard that the wine came out of his nose. The Shikari name stuck after that night. And we ended up at our usual place, where I fell in love with Nazia, the queen of the night at the Commander.

Now at the bar at Goa Portuguesa, I amused Anjane with stories of my rides in the Kabul Armed Police 's technicals. He was particularly amused about the incidents in Jalabad where we ran afoul of some private contractors and took fire from a "visiting Pakistani delegation". He asked me if I wanted to hang out after dinner, I agreed since I had nothing better to do.

We ended up in the back of another nondescript Qualis driving near Shivaji Park. About ten minutes into the ride, I realised Anjane was too focussed to be partying. It was a long shot - but I asked him casually who the mark was tonight and he told me Fotedar (who replaced Shirsat three years ago) was done putting up with Pavel. Fotedar was a bit more like Singh (who Shirsat replaced a decade ago), very taciturn and somewhat hands off but like his predecessor Fotedar was the attack dog that never stops.

Pavel - Pavel Petrovich - aka Uncle Sasha - the main supplier of "Russian Vodkas" to the rich and famous in Bombay. I knew Pavel - he was a good fellow in a general sort of way - it was really too bad it had to be this way. I told Anjane, I had heard he worked for the Rezident of Napean Sea Road. Anjane agreed, he had heard the same thing, but Fotedar was apparently worried that the "Vodkas" were all honey traps and there would be nothing but trouble from this. Apparently Fotedar and some people from Delhi had chatted up the Rezident, but he said very clearly that he didn't know Pavel and didn't care what happened to him. That seemed to close the book as far as Fotedar and Anjane were concerned. The formal order had been red-flashed to them from New Delhi a hour ago - while we were drinking at Goa Portuguesa.

I knew Pavel had a habit of taking one of the "Vodkas" out for a spin on his motorbike late at night. He drove it like a madman because there was no traffic and that impressed the girls. Anjane must have known this too, because we waited with the lights turned out near the Savarkar memorial. I felt the liquor dimming my senses, but I still had a strange feeling in my stomach.

Half an hour later, we saw a flash light go off in a building up the road and I heard the roar of a motorbike. Seconds later I heard a car start up and then there was the most terrible sound of metal crunching on metal. A loud bang followed, and Anjane started the Qualis.

We drove past the scene about a hundred yards up the street. It was just around a corner, Uncle Sasha lay sprawled near the road divider, his brains were spreading out on the tar. The vehicle that he collided with was nowhere to be seen. The "Vodka", the girl he was riding around with, was about twenty yards behind Pavel, she was gone too - her neck was turned in an impossible way. There was blood and mangled metal everywhere.

Anjane was stooped over the body and I stood numbed by the event. As I heard a siren in the distance, I turned to face the source of the sound. My mind seemed to fade and the world became quite foggy, but I made out the dim outline of a bus filled with Tetravals and it lurched to a stop ten feet from me.